Centerfold
by xXHumptyDumptyXx
Summary: Adrien knows his strongest, and fondest memories, are with her. Even so, he can't help but recall all of them. The good, and the bad. From the time before her disappearance filled with smiles and happiness, to after looking behind his father's cold shoulder. (A retelling of Adrien's relationship with both of his parents. His mother's disappearance and father's neglect.)


**I do not own Miraculous Ladybug and give all credit to the producers and creator Thomas Astruc.**

* * *

It's one of the memories you cherish most. Nature was one of her favorites - and you were endearing no matter where. That day you were standing side by side, her head leaning slight against yours, and a full match of hair and eyes. Father always did say you were both a spitting image of each other. In honesty he believes, almost without so much a quality from him. His hands on the camera delicate - tone depressing. Neither would let it go after that, because Adrien Agreste was as much of his father as his mother. It was a belief you felt mellow when passing the family portrait.

Father ignores the insistence to join, because how else will the picture capture them? A camera crew would've been easy to hire. Except if only with resistance from her wishes, which were more personal. You know it's an excuse; you don't find yourself bothered much anyway. Today was a day for her, and you know father cares enough to remember even that. He lowers the camera - asks about the rest of the night, and you see his eyes and know it's for her. There's a smile forming on her lips when she leads.

You step in front of the Fountaine des Flueves. The lights are glittering across the water spray, and you look at the twinkle in her eyes. She calls father over, and once again he asks her why here of all places. It happens near every time, especially the confused look to grace him. She responds with, "Gabriel, you know exactly why." The tone is loving, if not condescending.

At that time, you remember happiness in you - all three of you.

* * *

There was a day from long before that you remember clearer than any other. The last day, atmosphere of the house changing. You slipped through the door, only greeted with dim lights. Backpack dropped - forgotten, and face twisted into concern. It makes you think of the underlined words and hesitant faces. The kind you processed with restriction. Simple ones they've both been showing often. Slow in replacing the easygoing and charming you've forever loved.

You place your hands on the only lit door, intent on wrenching it open. There's a voice that reaches you in time with a pounding heart. It's soft-spoken. There's another that's stone-cold. This stops you. Before you can understand, the other side opens to your surprise. She's staring back at you with a shocked face, mouth forming your name. All response now gone, shoved away like the door you imagined mere moments ago.

"Adrien, go to your room." His voice conflicted, caring, and something you can't identify. You'd never heard it that way before, you never wanted to. A rebellion is forming in your mouth, except it never comes. She's still there, looking at you with a forcefulness that you realize later is most by yourself. "Please," her tone is desperate.

The steps of your feet resign, having been connected to the world - to this house. Tonight you lose them somewhere else. The face in your pillow is in denial, with the single swish of her necklace as the thought.

* * *

You walk the hallways after that day, true realization coming through time. Shock hits you from yesterday. Your head feels airy, breathing heavy, fists clenched. The stumble of your legs enters his room. You're almost yelling - asking for an explanation, met with a scrunched face. He's troubled. A pair of arms circle around you that give no comfort. It stops not a single tear that rushes down your face.

He doesn't speak to you next, or the eternity of a few days that pass. You don't know how you feel, about the loss of contact, or overflow of freedom. Neither is what you want. Right now, the one thing on your mind is mother. Back then, the words _she's gone_ stuck within. Now, you feel a roar of grief. It's overpowering. The grasp of your father comes to mind again - it drives anguish.

How long it's been, you've no idea. He stays hidden in the study, writing in books and brooding. You shuffle into the room, hoping for more than a blank face. Emptiness is all there is. Maybe this time he'll say yes. "Father, can we talk?" The twitch of his hand stops, and you take this as a good sign. Ice blue eyes turn to you, "I'm hiring a new assistant. She'll take care of the house, and hopefully keep you out of trouble." This is all he says. It hurts, and yet... From that day you never tried again.

* * *

The drawl of Nathalie's voice never stops, urging you to think about fleeing the room. "Paris." It was an obvious answer. Your voice is strung-out, and even a child would be able to tell it's sick and bored.

She of course ignores this and gives a statement of positivism. You mentally applause yourself as if it's a challenge. During lunch, you spend it out of the house. What was the point of staying for lunch by yourself? Not while the streets are full of people, normal people, living their lives in peace. That's when the contrast hits you. All this time cooped up in your own house given trivia, and you can't even remember the last time you spoke with your father.

A school, friends, and a normal life. You want all these, almost as bad as an answer to the past. It's been so long since you've felt this courageous. The limo pulls up with a worried looking Nathalie, who urges you in the car.

"I want to go to school." You say as the car rolls to a stop. Her face startles, and you know what she's going to say. Yet perhaps from seeing it in your eyes, or something else. She says, "We'll see, Adrien. You're father won't be happy though." Either way, those words are better than any other you've heard in a long while.

* * *

You'd give anything to escape this, if only escaping had worked. His words of 'my son' are ringing around the room. Comfort is from a painting and a pillow that drown out your sorrows. Belongings littering the floor from where you've thrown them. Sooner or later you'll have to face it - to never have a normal life. A second later and the bed shakes. You jump up, hearing the noise resonate from outside. The door flies open. You're almost tricked into thinking you caused it - with anger and regret. There's policemen outside the gate, aiming forward at what you cannot see.

Too dangerous, so you rush to the tv. The mayor is on, swarmed by news-reporters. A giant stone-man is walking towards a cop, one before talking with a broken arm. The report has big bold letters, and "A Super Villian In Paris?" It doesn't look good. There's a shadow that catches your eye. It's a weird black box on the table below you. In confusion you pick it up with wonder at what's inside, and how it even got there.

That was the first and last chance you needed, and by far the best of all.


End file.
